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Ava Gardner #1
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Big Hollywood
The love affair—and I’m using that term loosely—between Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra was doomed from the start. Both stars were emotionally immature with little impulse control. Both were alcoholics, and both had a history of affairs with equally unstable partners.
And so The Voice and The Shape plunged into a tsunami of a relationship and a six-year marriage (1951 - 1957) punctuated by unbridled passion, threats of suicide, and metronomic doses of violence.
In Autumn of 1949 Gardner and Sinatra, not yet lovers, were both guests at the Palm Beach home of producer Darryl F. Zanuck. The liquor flowed, and the two stars locked in on each other like lethal missiles.
Ava said, “You’re still married.”
Frank responded, “No, doll, it’s all over. It is done.”
For hours they drank and flirted. Ava’s career was going through the roof. Her smoldering role as the femme fatale in “The Killers“—one of the best noir movies ever—catapulted her into the Hollywood stratosphere.
For a shoeless farm girl from North Carolina with no father and little education, Hollywood stardom was a dangerous perfume. In a few short years Ava went from being a sensitive, prim and proper virgin to a notoriously promiscuous, hard-drinking woman.
Sinatra’s career was in trouble. His records were not selling and MGM was anxious to drop his contract as his box office appeal faltered. Sinatra did not help himself by being obnoxious and hostile to the media.
Sinatra and Gardner exited Zanuck’s party with a bottle of booze in hand. They clambered into Sinatra’s Cadillac and putting pedal to metal, Sinatra roared into the night.
Driving along they passed the bottle back and forth.
Like two crazy kids, they were going nowhere fast.
Soon, they ended up in the small town of Indio. Sinatra pulled into the main street and parked. There he and Ava kissed and groped under the stars.
Taking a break from their make-out session, Ava tipped back her head for another long gulp of hooch. Sinatra leaned forward, opened the glove compartment and pulled out two .38 Smith & Wesson pistols.
Sinatra took aim at a street light and fired. Glass exploded. He aimed at another street light and hit it on the first shot.
Ava, a country girl who grew up around hunters, cried: “Let me shoot something.”
Sinatra grinned and handed her the second pistol. Whooping like a Confederate soldier Ava Gardner aimed at the twinkling stars and blasted away.
Frank stared at Ava, mesmerized, and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he had finally found his soul mate. Here was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood shooting up the inexplicable universe.
Ava downed more liquor, squinted down the barrel of the Smith & Wesson and fired into the window of a hardware store.
Ava shot the chambers empty and continued to shriek the rebel yell.
Sinatra put the huge Caddy into gear and headed back to Palm Springs. They didn’t get very far before they heard a police siren.
Two small town cops approached with guns leveled.
Sinatra said to Ava: “Christ, what do these clowns want now?”
A few hours later, as Ava lay unconscious on a wood bench in the police station, a publicist from Los Angeles arrived by chartered plane with a big black bag that he handed over to the cops.
Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner were released. There was no paper trail and no publicity.
Two small town cops enjoyed a comfortable retirement.
In the morning, back in Palm Springs, Ava Gardner’s sister, Bappie, was up having breakfast when Ava returned all rumpled and haggard and smelling like a speakeasy.
Bappie wanted to know where Ava was all night.
Ava replied: “I went out with Frank Sinatra. We had a wonderful time.”
The love affair—and I’m using that term loosely—between Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra was doomed from the start. Both stars were emotionally immature with little impulse control. Both were alcoholics, and both had a history of affairs with equally unstable partners.
And so The Voice and The Shape plunged into a tsunami of a relationship and a six-year marriage (1951 - 1957) punctuated by unbridled passion, threats of suicide, and metronomic doses of violence.
In Autumn of 1949 Gardner and Sinatra, not yet lovers, were both guests at the Palm Beach home of producer Darryl F. Zanuck. The liquor flowed, and the two stars locked in on each other like lethal missiles.
Ava said, “You’re still married.”
Frank responded, “No, doll, it’s all over. It is done.”
For hours they drank and flirted. Ava’s career was going through the roof. Her smoldering role as the femme fatale in “The Killers“—one of the best noir movies ever—catapulted her into the Hollywood stratosphere.
For a shoeless farm girl from North Carolina with no father and little education, Hollywood stardom was a dangerous perfume. In a few short years Ava went from being a sensitive, prim and proper virgin to a notoriously promiscuous, hard-drinking woman.
Sinatra’s career was in trouble. His records were not selling and MGM was anxious to drop his contract as his box office appeal faltered. Sinatra did not help himself by being obnoxious and hostile to the media.
Sinatra and Gardner exited Zanuck’s party with a bottle of booze in hand. They clambered into Sinatra’s Cadillac and putting pedal to metal, Sinatra roared into the night.
Driving along they passed the bottle back and forth.
Like two crazy kids, they were going nowhere fast.
Soon, they ended up in the small town of Indio. Sinatra pulled into the main street and parked. There he and Ava kissed and groped under the stars.
Taking a break from their make-out session, Ava tipped back her head for another long gulp of hooch. Sinatra leaned forward, opened the glove compartment and pulled out two .38 Smith & Wesson pistols.
Sinatra took aim at a street light and fired. Glass exploded. He aimed at another street light and hit it on the first shot.
Ava, a country girl who grew up around hunters, cried: “Let me shoot something.”
Sinatra grinned and handed her the second pistol. Whooping like a Confederate soldier Ava Gardner aimed at the twinkling stars and blasted away.
Frank stared at Ava, mesmerized, and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he had finally found his soul mate. Here was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood shooting up the inexplicable universe.
Ava downed more liquor, squinted down the barrel of the Smith & Wesson and fired into the window of a hardware store.
Ava shot the chambers empty and continued to shriek the rebel yell.
Sinatra put the huge Caddy into gear and headed back to Palm Springs. They didn’t get very far before they heard a police siren.
Two small town cops approached with guns leveled.
Sinatra said to Ava: “Christ, what do these clowns want now?”
A few hours later, as Ava lay unconscious on a wood bench in the police station, a publicist from Los Angeles arrived by chartered plane with a big black bag that he handed over to the cops.
Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner were released. There was no paper trail and no publicity.
Two small town cops enjoyed a comfortable retirement.
In the morning, back in Palm Springs, Ava Gardner’s sister, Bappie, was up having breakfast when Ava returned all rumpled and haggard and smelling like a speakeasy.
Bappie wanted to know where Ava was all night.
Ava replied: “I went out with Frank Sinatra. We had a wonderful time.”
scriptgirl
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NYTimes
The Angel Wore Red (1960)
September 29, 1960
Ava Gardner Stars in 'Angel Wore Red'
EUGENE ARCHER.
Published: September 29, 1960
THE Spanish Civil War offers a fresh and compelling background for an unusual love story in "The Angel Wore Red," but most of the possibilities inherent in the theme are nullified by the screen play's questionable taste.
In yesterday's new entry at neighborhood theatres, the focus of attention is a frank and extensively explicated love affair between a Spanish prostitute and a priest. While the priest is presented as a renegade who has removed his cassock out of disillusionment with the practices of his church in a time of stress, and the woman's profession is similarly disguised by a thin reference to a job as a "cabaret girl," the obviously controversial material leaves the filmmakers' intentions open to doubt.
Presumably, it is only because the girl's convenient death brings about a bogus miracle at the end, thus permitting the priest to regain his faith, that the cause of censorship has been pacified.
Conventional though the story sounds, the unusual subject matter provides some intriguing scenes. Nunnally Johnson, whose screen writing credits include "Holy Matrimony" and "The Grapes of Wrath," has articulated the Loyalists' anti-clerical position in a surprisingly provocative fashion. In several scenes involving Vittorio De Sica as a cynical Communist army officer and Enrico Mario Salerno as a captain of more patriotic hue, the dialogue bristles with flashes of intelligence and wit.
In his direction, Mr. Johnson has also provided a few competent battle scenes and an over-all production gloss. Under his guidance, the love scenes between Ava Gardner and Dirk Bogarde clearly indicate that their relationship as far from Platonic.
No amount of thoughtful writing or glib direction, however, can salvage the effort when the plot, after going farther than other films toward investigating a religious quandary in the Graham Greene manner, takes everything back at the end and dissolves into a mass of inspirational sentimentality.
Ava Gardner, a veteran of the Spanish wars, remains a fine figure of a woman, and she makes an interesting try at a patently unplayable role. Dirk Bogavde plays the priest with skill and restraint, in a performance that is consistently in key.
The other performers are less effective. Joseph Cotten gruffly overplays a one-eyed war correspondent, and the portrayals of character actors Vittorio De Sica and Aldo Fabrizi are ruined by poor dubbing. Signor Fabrizi, as a priest shot by a firing squad, repeats his most famous scene from "Open City"—this time in a squeaky contralto. As for Signor De Sica, whose own deep, expressive accent is currently audible in "It Started in Naples," the high-pitched British diction that accompanies his florid Italian gestures is totally incongruous.
Prospective customers also should be warned against the misleading title. The shade of the heroine's wardrobe, whether scarlet or cherry-blossom pink, hardly matters when the film is released in standard black and white.
The Angel Wore Red (1960)
September 29, 1960
Ava Gardner Stars in 'Angel Wore Red'
EUGENE ARCHER.
Published: September 29, 1960
THE Spanish Civil War offers a fresh and compelling background for an unusual love story in "The Angel Wore Red," but most of the possibilities inherent in the theme are nullified by the screen play's questionable taste.
In yesterday's new entry at neighborhood theatres, the focus of attention is a frank and extensively explicated love affair between a Spanish prostitute and a priest. While the priest is presented as a renegade who has removed his cassock out of disillusionment with the practices of his church in a time of stress, and the woman's profession is similarly disguised by a thin reference to a job as a "cabaret girl," the obviously controversial material leaves the filmmakers' intentions open to doubt.
Presumably, it is only because the girl's convenient death brings about a bogus miracle at the end, thus permitting the priest to regain his faith, that the cause of censorship has been pacified.
Conventional though the story sounds, the unusual subject matter provides some intriguing scenes. Nunnally Johnson, whose screen writing credits include "Holy Matrimony" and "The Grapes of Wrath," has articulated the Loyalists' anti-clerical position in a surprisingly provocative fashion. In several scenes involving Vittorio De Sica as a cynical Communist army officer and Enrico Mario Salerno as a captain of more patriotic hue, the dialogue bristles with flashes of intelligence and wit.
In his direction, Mr. Johnson has also provided a few competent battle scenes and an over-all production gloss. Under his guidance, the love scenes between Ava Gardner and Dirk Bogarde clearly indicate that their relationship as far from Platonic.
No amount of thoughtful writing or glib direction, however, can salvage the effort when the plot, after going farther than other films toward investigating a religious quandary in the Graham Greene manner, takes everything back at the end and dissolves into a mass of inspirational sentimentality.
Ava Gardner, a veteran of the Spanish wars, remains a fine figure of a woman, and she makes an interesting try at a patently unplayable role. Dirk Bogavde plays the priest with skill and restraint, in a performance that is consistently in key.
The other performers are less effective. Joseph Cotten gruffly overplays a one-eyed war correspondent, and the portrayals of character actors Vittorio De Sica and Aldo Fabrizi are ruined by poor dubbing. Signor Fabrizi, as a priest shot by a firing squad, repeats his most famous scene from "Open City"—this time in a squeaky contralto. As for Signor De Sica, whose own deep, expressive accent is currently audible in "It Started in Naples," the high-pitched British diction that accompanies his florid Italian gestures is totally incongruous.
Prospective customers also should be warned against the misleading title. The shade of the heroine's wardrobe, whether scarlet or cherry-blossom pink, hardly matters when the film is released in standard black and white.
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From: Roland Flamini, Ava, Coward, McCann & Geoghegan: New York, NY (1983), page 26:
From: Roland Flamini, Ava, Coward, McCann & Geoghegan: New York, NY (1983), page 26:
Her [Ava's mother] nature was rather joyless, burdened by money worries and by her austere Scottish Baptist background. Her husband of twenty years, Jonas Bailey Gardner, was... [an] Irishman who rarely smiled. He lived in unrelieved tension between passionate appetites and puritan inhibitions... he was strict to the point of oppression with his teenage daughters... In 1902 Jonas [had] married Mollie Baker [Ava Gardner's mother]... Although Jonas was a Roman Catholic, the Baker family would not permit Mollie to sign the agreement to raise the children in the Catholic faith as required by the Church in mixed marriages. The Gardner children grew up attending Baptist services, while Jonas lapsed into indifference.
From: Charles Higham, Ava: A Life Story, Delacorte Press: New York, NY (1974), page 2:
Smithfield [North Carolina]... Ava Gardner was born on Christmas Eve, 1922... She was the last of seven children of a... farmer named Jonas Bailey Gardner... He was bigoted, particularly against blacks, a devout Irish Catholic, and the fourth in a line of tenant farmers... His wife was Mary Elizabeth (often called Molly)... a puritanical hater of sex, she was born of a stern line of Scottish Baptists, and there was iron in her pinched soul... Books were no part of the texture of their life: only the Bible stood on the shelves, and it was not until Ava was 16 that she was permitted to read any novel not assigned in school.
Higham, page 5:
...for the Gardners, there were Sunday morning services at the small Baptist church in Brogden, Christmases with the whole family gathered round, and long winter evenings with Jonas Gardner telling stories... It was an intensely happy family life until the Depression...
Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story, Bantam Books: New York, NY (1990), pages 21-22: I was growing into adolescence in Newport News, and I have to say that Mama was not very helpful to a teenage girl. We may not have been very deeply into religion, but into sex we were not at all. Nothing was ever talked about; Mother never ever told me anything... The subject was forbidden...
Next came my baptism. It was considered very fashionable by all the girls at school; you simply had to do it. With my body changing the way it was [with puberty and the onset of her menstrual period], I was worried about the ceremony, so I went to see the parson. He wasn't in, so I confided my dilemma to his wife, and she--and I'll never forgive her--said in a lordly fashion, "Oh, don't worry, dear. God will take care of everything."
God didn't take care of anything.
Unlike North Carolina, where baptisms often took place in a river near the chapel, our local Baptist church came complete with a sort of deep concrete bath behind the pulpit. That location meant, however, that everyone in the congregation could have a super view of what was going on. I was put in a thin shift and dunked deep under the water. When I came up, the fabric had turned sheer and stuck to me in such a way that my whole body was plainly revealed, and what seemed like a thousand shocked eyes were staring at me.
I felt humiliated, totally ashamed. It was the worst experience I have ever had in my whole life. I hated religion for having exposed me in this fashion. and when I went around to this same preacher and asked shyly if he might perhaps come and talk to Daddy, because he was very lonely, he never did. Maybe we weren't good enough Christians for that. So Daddy just lay there and slowly died.
Next came my baptism. It was considered very fashionable by all the girls at school; you simply had to do it. With my body changing the way it was [with puberty and the onset of her menstrual period], I was worried about the ceremony, so I went to see the parson. He wasn't in, so I confided my dilemma to his wife, and she--and I'll never forgive her--said in a lordly fashion, "Oh, don't worry, dear. God will take care of everything."
God didn't take care of anything.
Unlike North Carolina, where baptisms often took place in a river near the chapel, our local Baptist church came complete with a sort of deep concrete bath behind the pulpit. That location meant, however, that everyone in the congregation could have a super view of what was going on. I was put in a thin shift and dunked deep under the water. When I came up, the fabric had turned sheer and stuck to me in such a way that my whole body was plainly revealed, and what seemed like a thousand shocked eyes were staring at me.
I felt humiliated, totally ashamed. It was the worst experience I have ever had in my whole life. I hated religion for having exposed me in this fashion. and when I went around to this same preacher and asked shyly if he might perhaps come and talk to Daddy, because he was very lonely, he never did. Maybe we weren't good enough Christians for that. So Daddy just lay there and slowly died.
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Higham, pages 7-8:
Higham, pages 7-8:
At 16... she [Ava Gardner] was a beautiful, leggy brunette in constant demand for dates. But under her mother's cold grip she seldom went out. And when she did, she clung to her virginity... While her mother was matron at the teacherage in Rock Ridge near Wilson, she went to the Atlantic Christian College at Wilson, a co-educational institution...
[page 8] At 17, Ava was a subdued, suspicious, and nervous girl: her mother's baby. She was simple, easy, raw. She had little poise, so self-conscious that she would have been a disaster at a sophisticated party. She had grown up too fast, and she was terrified of her own sexual attraction. It was from her mother that she learned the lack of commitment to sexual existence that infuriated many men who loved her. An odd, disconcerting chastity lay at the very heart of her seemingly passionate character. Her mother taught her that she must love a man with such absolute devotion that he would not want to look elsewhere--yet taught her also to far sex... Ava was at 17 the victim of very American feelings: puritan romantic yearning... Her conflicting emotions set the tone of her entire career: on one hand a desire for the romantic excitement of stardom, bred early by her furtive reading of fan magazines, and on the other a puritanical disgust at the cheap sentiment and sexual squalor of the screen, the sordid flesh-market of Hollywood; later, a scorning of the power and success that stardom so easily brought, and yet a horror of the possibility of being penniless...
Flamini, page 33: [page 8] At 17, Ava was a subdued, suspicious, and nervous girl: her mother's baby. She was simple, easy, raw. She had little poise, so self-conscious that she would have been a disaster at a sophisticated party. She had grown up too fast, and she was terrified of her own sexual attraction. It was from her mother that she learned the lack of commitment to sexual existence that infuriated many men who loved her. An odd, disconcerting chastity lay at the very heart of her seemingly passionate character. Her mother taught her that she must love a man with such absolute devotion that he would not want to look elsewhere--yet taught her also to far sex... Ava was at 17 the victim of very American feelings: puritan romantic yearning... Her conflicting emotions set the tone of her entire career: on one hand a desire for the romantic excitement of stardom, bred early by her furtive reading of fan magazines, and on the other a puritanical disgust at the cheap sentiment and sexual squalor of the screen, the sordid flesh-market of Hollywood; later, a scorning of the power and success that stardom so easily brought, and yet a horror of the possibility of being penniless...
Helped by her brother Jack, who owned a diner in Smithfield, [Ava] enrolled in the coeducational Atlantic Christian College in Wilson, studying business education and secretarial science... In the summer of 1940... She saw the newly released Gone With the Wind. She also read Margaret Mitchell's colossal novel--by her own admission the first book she had ever read outside of school requirements, for only one book had ever crossed the Gardner's threshold in Boon Hill and that was the Bible.
Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story, page 25:
...my rascally brother Jack... came up with a surprise... "You're going to round off your education with a year at the Atlantic Christian College in Wilson. And I'm going to pay for it."
...Mama, bless her, still ruled my life with the strictness of a mother superior in the Carmelite order... My upbringing was totally Victorian; I grew up an old-fashioned, God-fearing girl, taught that marriage and motherhood were honorable achievements. And Mama was the eternal watchdog, intent on seeing that I stayed honorable until the bitter end.
I must have been seventeen. It was New Year's Eve and I had gone to a dance with a neighborhood boy I liked very much and had dated before. By the time we got back to the house and stood under the blazing porch light, it was one o'clock in the morning. As we said good night at the door, he took my in his arms and kissed me. It was a gentle kiss, not passionate, and I responded in kind.
We hadn't been there for more than two seconds before Mama crashed through that screen door like a bull out of a trap. Honest to God, I thought she was going to kill us both. That boy was scared... She chased him back to his car and then came back yelling at me, "It's disgraceful! How could you do it? I will not have my youngest daughter behaving in such a wanton manner." ...Later on I thought: Gee, a kiss on the porch after a New Year's dance. It wasn't like we'd been sneaking around in the bushes, or even been necking in his car. But as I've said, Mama was pure Victorian, and when you see some of what's going on these days, maybe her ideas weren't all that bad.
...Mama, bless her, still ruled my life with the strictness of a mother superior in the Carmelite order... My upbringing was totally Victorian; I grew up an old-fashioned, God-fearing girl, taught that marriage and motherhood were honorable achievements. And Mama was the eternal watchdog, intent on seeing that I stayed honorable until the bitter end.
I must have been seventeen. It was New Year's Eve and I had gone to a dance with a neighborhood boy I liked very much and had dated before. By the time we got back to the house and stood under the blazing porch light, it was one o'clock in the morning. As we said good night at the door, he took my in his arms and kissed me. It was a gentle kiss, not passionate, and I responded in kind.
We hadn't been there for more than two seconds before Mama crashed through that screen door like a bull out of a trap. Honest to God, I thought she was going to kill us both. That boy was scared... She chased him back to his car and then came back yelling at me, "It's disgraceful! How could you do it? I will not have my youngest daughter behaving in such a wanton manner." ...Later on I thought: Gee, a kiss on the porch after a New Year's dance. It wasn't like we'd been sneaking around in the bushes, or even been necking in his car. But as I've said, Mama was pure Victorian, and when you see some of what's going on these days, maybe her ideas weren't all that bad.
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Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story, page 49:
Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story, page 49:
But no matter how much fun I was having [while dating Mickey Rooney], I was not going to bed with any man until I was married to him. Sex before marriage was definitely out; in Mama's terms, even a couple of kisses before marriage was a kind of prostitution. I was a very old-fashioned girl, as Mickey found out after a couple of wrestling sessions in the back of his car.
Flamini, pages 47-48: At first Mickey [Rooney]'s dominant urge was sexual, and there would be wrestling bouts in the back of the Lincoln on the drive home from a date. Ava had no interest in "going all the way" with Mickey, and perhaps the memory of her mother's disapproval stiffened her resistance. Mickey would drop her off at her apartment, often departing in a huff. But the next day there would be roses by the hundreds, or sprays of orchids to apologize and make up. Ava's resistance only served to increase his ardor, and he began to propose marriage.
Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story, pages 52-53: Mickey [Rooney] and I were married on January 10, 1942, in Ballard, a town near Santa Barbara... Presbyterian minister Reverend Glenn H. Lutz... conducted the services...
The [COLOR=blue! important][COLOR=blue! important]wedding[/COLOR][/COLOR] over, pictures taken, Mickey and I got into the getaway car that was to whisk us to our intimate honeymoon retreat near Monterey--and Les Petersen got in with us. What the hell Les was doing with us only [studio boss] L. B. Mayer could possibly know. actually, I know exactly what he was doing there. He was personally responsible to Mr. Mayer for keeping the name of Andy Hardy [Mickey Rooney's [COLOR=blue! important][COLOR=blue! important]TV [COLOR=blue! important]character[/COLOR][/COLOR][/COLOR]] pure and unsullied. And as Mickey loved booze, betting, and girls... that was quite a job, and I have to add that I forgave dear Les completely for what he had to do...
The suite in the hotel was great: huge fireplace... a big bedroom... But by now I was cooling very rapidly this honeymoon deal. I realized that it was a bit late for the bride to default, but I wanted to keep the moment of truth off as long as possible.
Drinking seemed to be the only way of doing that... no one felt less inclined to honeymoon activities that night than I did. Nothing to do with Mickey. I loved him, but I needed time to think this thing through. I had been brought up my Mama, after all, and I had not been briefed about this next bit. This business of sex was going to ruin the entire marriage...
Let me say at this point that I approve highly of the physical side of relationships between male and female. Not only does it make the world go round, it's marvelous. In that respect all my three marriages were perfect; I loved each one of my husbands just as much when I left them as I did when I married them . . . .but that honeymoon night in the Del Monte Hotel I just wasn't ready. Oh, it worked all right, and I was agreeably surprised. Even when next morning... Mickey was out of bed and heading for the golf course.
Higham, pages 27-28: The [COLOR=blue! important][COLOR=blue! important]wedding[/COLOR][/COLOR] over, pictures taken, Mickey and I got into the getaway car that was to whisk us to our intimate honeymoon retreat near Monterey--and Les Petersen got in with us. What the hell Les was doing with us only [studio boss] L. B. Mayer could possibly know. actually, I know exactly what he was doing there. He was personally responsible to Mr. Mayer for keeping the name of Andy Hardy [Mickey Rooney's [COLOR=blue! important][COLOR=blue! important]TV [COLOR=blue! important]character[/COLOR][/COLOR][/COLOR]] pure and unsullied. And as Mickey loved booze, betting, and girls... that was quite a job, and I have to add that I forgave dear Les completely for what he had to do...
The suite in the hotel was great: huge fireplace... a big bedroom... But by now I was cooling very rapidly this honeymoon deal. I realized that it was a bit late for the bride to default, but I wanted to keep the moment of truth off as long as possible.
Drinking seemed to be the only way of doing that... no one felt less inclined to honeymoon activities that night than I did. Nothing to do with Mickey. I loved him, but I needed time to think this thing through. I had been brought up my Mama, after all, and I had not been briefed about this next bit. This business of sex was going to ruin the entire marriage...
Let me say at this point that I approve highly of the physical side of relationships between male and female. Not only does it make the world go round, it's marvelous. In that respect all my three marriages were perfect; I loved each one of my husbands just as much when I left them as I did when I married them . . . .but that honeymoon night in the Del Monte Hotel I just wasn't ready. Oh, it worked all right, and I was agreeably surprised. Even when next morning... Mickey was out of bed and heading for the golf course.
1942... The wedding [of Ava Gardner to Mickey Rooney] took place on January 10, almost exactly six months from the day that Ava came to Hollywood... The wedding was performed by the Rev. Glenn H. Lutz... who is now Presbyterian minister in Las Vegas... [page 28] Once alone with Mickey in their suite, Ava was terrified. She felt all of her mother's horror of sex welling up in her. Mickey, despite his experience with women, was equally terrified... Awkwardly, clumsily, as he confessed later, Mickey began to make love to her, and he gradually overcame her [COLOR=blue! important][COLOR=blue! important]shyness[/COLOR][/COLOR]. But it was only when... that he learned the incredible truth: the beautiful woman he held in his arms was a virgin.
Flamini, pages 52-54:
They [Mickey Rooney and Ava Gardner] were married on Sunday, January 10, 1942... the couple drove into Santa Barbara, picking up their [COLOR=blue! important][COLOR=blue! important]marriage [COLOR=blue! important]certificate[/COLOR][/COLOR][/COLOR] without leaving the car. From Santa Barbara they made their way to a small white Presbyterian church in Ballard, tucked away in the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. No one appears to have attached much importance to the fact that Ava had been raised a Southern Baptist and Mickey was a Christian Scientist.
The wedding was performed by the Reverend Glenn H. Lutz, a rotund, cheerful churchman...
...the wedding... Despite considerable experience with women, Mickey proceeded with uncharacteristic shyness. Ava may have felt her mother's stern moralism welling up and was equally terrified. She was also a virgin. Overcoming her shyness, Ava proved more than a match for Mickey. Overwhelmed by her ardor, Mickey got up in the middle of the night and wrote letters to his parents and friends.
Ava Gardner, Ava: My Story, page 135: The wedding was performed by the Reverend Glenn H. Lutz, a rotund, cheerful churchman...
...the wedding... Despite considerable experience with women, Mickey proceeded with uncharacteristic shyness. Ava may have felt her mother's stern moralism welling up and was equally terrified. She was also a virgin. Overcoming her shyness, Ava proved more than a match for Mickey. Overwhelmed by her ardor, Mickey got up in the middle of the night and wrote letters to his parents and friends.
"Ava," Bappie [her sister] said in her dark-brown North Carolina Baptist Belt voice that fortunately nobody understood except me...
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Portrait of Ava
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